


for the liveliness of your mind

by owlvsdove



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25540930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlvsdove/pseuds/owlvsdove
Summary: “Do you think perhaps Mr. Ward behaves in such a way because he fancies you?”(pride & prejudice au)
Relationships: Jemma Simmons/Grant Ward
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	for the liveliness of your mind

**Author's Note:**

> \- i started writing this in dec. 2016  
> \- i cut out all the wickham/lydia plot because i can't be bothered to figure out who those characters would even be  
> \- this isn't even a little bit in character, and i'm very sorry but what can ya do

It’s not as though Jemma doesn’t know where she stands. Among her sisters, she’s the bookish one. They have a pair of troublemakers, a well-meaning bore, and the loveliest woman that man could dream up. Jemma fits there in the middle of it all, perhaps too generously likening herself to the calm amongst the storm. 

So no, Jemma has no grand illusions about her beauty. 

Still, the smallest, most vain part of her - probably left over from Mother’s attempts at imparting her nerves onto Jemma - is still hurt when she hears what Grant Ward has to say about her. 

Skye looks stricken - utterly shocked at the idea that someone might not find Jemma as delightful as she does. She’s so soft-hearted, underneath her spirited countenance. That’s what makes people love her. 

“You’re biased,” Jemma points out. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Skye sniffs, ghost of a smile betraying her.

“You’re my sister. You have to believe I’m beautiful; if not it may reflect poorly on your prospects,” she teases in return.

“Jemma!”

“It’s fine, you know.” Jemma stretches her whole body as subtly as she can, neck to toes. Lying makes her uncomfortable. “You should just be glad that Mr. Triplett took an interest in you first. With Ward’s pursestrings, Mother wouldn’t be able to resist, despite his unique  _ charms _ .”

“He did  _ not  _ take an interest,” Skye insists. “He was polite.”

“Skye, don’t pretend. He was utterly charmed by you.”

And it’s in this rare moment that Skye shows herself: “I will not get my hopes up,” she says sharply. And softens again, easy as breathing. “There’s a saying about counting your chickens that may apply here.”

“Mother has been counting your chickens since before I was born. I rather think it’s too late for caution.” And Jemma scampers off to find Bobbi before Skye can protest further. 

Jemma knows what she saw - the truth is Mr. Triplett is quite taken with her sister, and after a few weeks of meeting him and his party and exchanging bashful pleasantries in the road, Skye is invited to dine with him. 

Jemma is out tending to the hens while Skye’s begs for transportation are waved away; but when she hears that her sister is sick and stranded at Netherfield, she is within earshot to commend her mother for the strength of will it takes to sell off one’s own daughter like a common whore. Then she promptly flees amidst Mrs. Simmons’ spluttering. 

On the (quite long) walk to Netherfield she reminds herself: For Skye. She will gladly suffer for Skye. 

Mr. Ward nearly knocks a tea cup off the breakfast table in his haste to stand at the sight of Jemma as she’s shown in. His staring is utterly unconscionable - eyes dark like an animal’s, only the barest shroud of civility. She thinks she may be able to mimic it exactly for Skye later. 

So that’s one small morsel of good news. 

Raina Triplett winds her arm around Jemma’s in the parlour room, and for just another in an uncountable series of moments, Jemma tosses a glance to the heavens for strength. 

Ward says something about their figures without looking up that Jemma does her best to forget immediately. 

He doesn’t like to be mocked, does he? Well, Jemma has been in dire need of a new hobby. 

Netherfield is lovely in every sense of convenience and absolutely miserable in every other aspect. It would be improper for Skye and Triplett to spend too much time together alone; so much of the time their burgeoning affection is on display, whether the group is on a walk through the vast grounds, or in Raina’s favored sitting room, or at a picnic near their sweet blue pond. 

It’d be a beautiful picture if not for the coiling anxiety in Jemma’s stomach. Mr. Ward’s stares are getting more unnerving, his comments more inexplicable. It all provokes her greatly, and she finds herself in near-shouting arguments with him more often than she cares to admit. Even the balm of her new friendship with Raina can’t distract from the fact that they are on borrowed time here. 

When Mother finally arrives with the carriage and the spectacle that is their three youngest sisters, Jemma can’t help but be a tad too gleeful that they’re finally leaving. Mrs. Simmons makes a point to chastise her unending rudeness all the way home. 

Jemma ignores it. At least she didn’t see Mr. Ward help her into the carriage; Mother would have exploded with comments. How would she explain his sudden show of manners?

Probably just glad to be rid of her. 

Jemma recounts the entire experience to Bobbi at length. Leaning against the pole of the laundry line, under the lazy sun, her eyes cut over. 

“Do you think perhaps Mr. Ward behaves in such a way because he fancies you?”

It’s a great misfortune that Jemma muddies a newly-washed bed sheet in her frenzied denial at the suggestion.

As previously stated, Jemma will gladly suffer for her sister - but she will not so much as muddy a slipper for her mother. And that’s just one of the many reasons why she  _ will not be marrying you, Mr. Hunter, no.  _

Jemma has already borne the indignity of this man’s presence in the first place, this distant relation who holds in a clammy grip the rights to her home once her father dies, just for the small fact that he was born a man. Being threatened with excommunication by her mother really is very little injury on top of that. 

Of course once you get past Mr. Hunter’s hurt pride, Mrs. Simmons’ squawking, and Mr. Simmons’ quiet relief, that still leaves the ever-so humble pastor without a wife. 

  
Bobbi waits silently, patiently, as though Jemma isn’t too stunned by her words to fight back. 

“Well,” Jemma says finally. “I know better than to argue with Barbara Morse when she’s made up her mind.”

Bobbi turns her mouth up in half a smile. “Don’t pretend as though I’m the stubborn one. You once left your hand on a hot iron just because a young man ordered you to take care.”

“Bobbi, you should know Mr. Hunter thinks it impious for women to exaggerate.”

They muster up a bit of childhood then, Bobbi to chase after her for her comment, Jemma to run away shrieking. 

Jemma won’t let a hollow moment pass between them again. Not when sacrifice looms ahead.

Mr. Triplett leaves town in the blink of an eye, stealing away his sister and the unfortunate Mr. Ward without so much as a note of passing. Jemma is present when Skye hears the news; while in town the streets buzz with gossip - important business in London, it was only a matter of time before he went back to civilized society, as though country life could keep him - and a blankness falls over her sister’s face like a heavy veil. 

Jemma wraps her arms around Skye’s middle, rests her chin on Skye’s shoulder. 

Jemma begins to plan. 

Skye attempts, seemingly futilely, to throw herself into her old hobbies and habits; so Jemma makes a move for her. 

“But I can’t go to London,” Skye murmurs, gobsmacked. Their aunt and uncle are already downstairs in the drawing room having a drink with Mother, waiting to accompany her there. 

“He loves you, Skye. I swear I’ve never seen a man more keen,” Jemma insists. 

“Does it not seem desperate to you,” Skye argues. 

“It’s romantic.”

“Jemma—”

“You’re not going there to knock on his door with influenza again. You happen to be visiting family in the city. Maybe you’ll see him again, and maybe you won’t. But you’ll have an answer, at the least.”

“Jemma—”

“Your things are already packed.”

This quiets her. Jemma moves towards the armoire to pull out the luggage she squirreled away this morning. 

Skye is touched, falling into that expression that tells the world she can’t believe such a kind thing has happened to her. She moves forward and takes Jemma’s hands. 

“But what will you do without me?”

Jemma laughs, probably too loudly for polite company. 

“It’s not vanity, Jemma, I’m serious. With Barbara gone and I on my way as well, I don’t want you to shutter yourself in.”

“I have no trouble being social. People enjoy me.”

“You do have trouble being civil, on occasion.”

“You’re going to London?” Jemma confirms. 

“I’m just visiting family in the city,” Skye says, more to convince herself than anyone else. “It would be rude to leave Aunt and Uncle waiting.”

“That’s a girl,” Jemma beams. 

  
Jemma  _ is  _ social, and she very well can be civil too; so she makes a trip to Hunsford to visit Bobbi in her newly married life. However she’s barely there a day before Mr. Hunter’s benefactress rolls into Rosing’s Park like thunder. 

Her issued dinner invitation is most gratefully accepted by Mr. Hunter, and all of the sudden Jemma finds herself in a manor perhaps even larger than Netherfield. All she has to do is turn a corner in that grand house and there he is. Ward. Dark eyed again, but this time more than a little stunned at the sight of her. 

_ Just put on whatever you have that’s best _ , Bobbi had said. Hell. 

His friend Mr. Fitz is quite an enjoyable man, a slightly-built soldier with more than a few clever jokes; and that’s what’s so utterly confusing about their friendship. 

“I found Mr. Ward to be quite humorless,” Jemma says plainly. She’s struggling at the pianoforte, and taking a stab at Ward soothes her wounded pride a bit. Ward stiffens at the teasing. 

“Grant can take a joke when it suits him,” Fitz insists. 

“Perhaps my humour is not to his liking then,” Jemma says lightly.

“On the contrary,” Ward says suddenly. “I’ve always found you quite to my liking.”

Unmoved by his strange comment, Jemma stares relentlessly at him as she finishes the last six bars of her song. She is unwilling to miss a note.

It’s a rather unholy thing to hear in a church, but perhaps this is divine intervention. Mr. Hunter’s sermon is so utterly boring that any scrap of interest is magnified tenfold. Mr. Fitz is sitting next to her, trying to extol Mr. Ward’s seemingly nonexistent virtues in hushed tones, but then the story starts to turn familiar. 

Mr. Ward, likened to a hero, saving his best friend from an unsavory romantic match. 

“And did he describe the nature of his disapproval?”

Fitz answers her: “The family was unsuitable.”

As soon as the service breaks out she excuses herself. When she’s out of sight, she runs. 

Her chest heaves. Why is this affecting her so severely? She already knew that she hated him, already knew that Mr. Ward was a prideful, standoffish bore who did little to remain civil amongst company, regardless of breed. Why does she feel so suddenly betrayed? 

Something dark moves in the corner of her eye and she startles.

“Miss Jemma,” Mr. Ward starts, formal as ever amidst obvious panting, as though he chased after her and she just didn’t notice. 

“You startled me, sir,” she says, and it comes out like an insult, a slap. Good. Let him fret over his own politeness. 

He doesn’t seem to have heard her. “Miss Jemma,” he says again. He takes a step forward. “I’ve tried in vain to ignore my feelings, but I can do so no longer.”

This is feeling vaguely familiar. A sickness washes over her, tightens her belly. 

“What are you saying?” she prompts him, breathlessness surely to do with exertion and nothing else. 

“I’m asking for your hand,” he says plainly. Perhaps the first thing he’s said to her in all their months of acquaintance without the cloaking of pride or insult or sarcasm. 

And yet, somehow it’s the very worst thing she’s ever heard. 

She remains silent, so he continues without thought: “Against my better judgement I’ve grown—”

“The hypocrisy,” she breathes, unable to contain it. 

“I beg your pardon?” For once she seems to really confuse him. He stares at her as though he’s just woken up from a dream. 

“You destroy a young couple in love, citing the inferiority of her family, and then ask for my hand even though the family is the very same.”

His face turns stony as he realizes exactly what she knows of his actions. She continues: “Do you deny it?”

“No,” he says immediately. 

“Then how could you possibly live with the hypocrisy?”

He looks determined. “Because I love you.”

Her breath catches. That’s...worse. And absurd.

But, per his own reasoning, she supposes there would be no other motive to propose if that impossible thing wasn’t true. 

The matter of how she possibly could have encouraged these affections is something to think about later. 

“And you think they weren’t in love?”

He seems wounded that she didn’t have more of a reaction to his confession, so she keeps herself as blank as possible, save the anger simmering under her skin. 

“I could see that he was becoming too enamored with her and she didn’t seem to reciprocate his affections at all!” He’s beginning to raise his voice. “Triplett is too good to see through his feelings to the impropriety.”

“ _ Impropriety _ ?” she nearly shouts. 

“Your sister is above reproach, I grant; but your mother, your younger sisters — even at times your father — made it clear that this match would have been acutely advantageous.”

“And yet you want this for yourself?” 

That stops his tirade. 

“Why would you open yourself up to such a thing and not allow your dearest friend to do the same?”

His voice softens. “I recognize that it’s not logical.”

“Mr. Triplett is a fully grown man, which is why I do fault him plenty for not ignoring your poor advice. But your need to manipulate the lives of others while showing no restraint of your own is unacceptable.”

“He asked for my advice and I gave it — that’s not a crime. Miss Skye gave no indication of any sort of preference toward him, so I—”

“Skye hardly shows her true feelings to me!” she bursts. “How could you pretend to know what she feels?”

“He asked for my advice,” he repeats tensely. 

“You force others, even friends, to work so hard to please you; perhaps he thought his difference of opinion wouldn’t be kindly accepted!”

“I—I can’t imagine,” he says, rejecting the idea outright. “ _ You’ve _ never had such a problem.”

It’s not the accusation he wants it to be. “I don’t bend to you,” she says sharply. Her chest heaves, as does his. 

“Perhaps it’s not your family’s fault you haven’t been wed yet,” he replies, voice lowering. “It seems your obstinacy, your outright refusal to accept anyone as they are, will resign you to burdening your parents for the rest of your life.”

“These are the words of a gentleman?” she seethes, outraged. Somehow he’s gotten closer to her without her realizing. “I’ve refused you so I must live my life alone?”

“I don’t see it any other way.”

“You’re controlling,” she accuses. “I wouldn’t want that in a husband.”

“Jemma—”

“Not when he has also proven himself to be unfailingly rude, unjust, and unkind. From the moment we met I haven’t been able to muster up a single positive thought about you, so despite the ‘acute advantage’ of our match I am convinced you’re the last man on earth I could marry.”

He’s very quiet for a long moment. 

“You wound me, madam.”

“Perhaps men like you ought to be wounded now and again.”

He smiles. It’s not unkind, but it certainly isn’t happy. He bows, probably deeper than he should, and leaves her. Letting her have the last word may very well be proof he loves her, after all. 

She spends that night in a daze. 

She can’t find the words to voice what happened to Bobbi. Even if she could, she eventually comes to the conclusion that she won’t. What an insult, what a slap in the face, to refuse another man when Jemma bears the guilt of her best friend’s loveless match in the first place. 

Skye’s words come back to her -  _ I don’t want you to shutter yourself in _ . 

But shame runs too deep to tell another soul. She’s seen him now. The honest man at the core of his many cold faces and vexing words. With that honesty she can’t help but review the events of the last several months. 

She’s a fool.

Jemma grits her teeth and spends the rest of the aching night thinking. 

Perhaps it's time to do some growing up. 

“Jemma, are you sure you’re feeling alright?” 

Bobbi must be concerned by the tightness in Jemma’s eyes, the drooping of her lids. She can hardly hold her teacup straight in the daze she’s in. 

Jemma is spared from lying when the door bursts open and Mr. Ward appears, exertion flattering his skin. Jemma stands immediately. 

He seems to stare at her for a moment before realizing Bobbi is also in the room. “Mrs. Hunter,” he greets her belatedly. “Miss Jemma.”

He bows and both women curtsy in response. Jemma feels faint. 

“I have a letter for you,” he says, and her eyes snap to his. He sets it down gently on the table in front of her seat. 

“Mr. Ward,” Bobbi says, surprised. “How...attentive of you to deliver it yourself.”

“Thank you,” Jemma says softly. She can barely meet his eyes. Now that there’s a secret between them, Jemma finds herself acutely concerned about his mental state. What is he thinking? What does he feel now? 

Silence reigns again for a moment and Bobbi raises an eyebrow at her. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Oh,” Jemma says. She bends to pick up the letter. A quick look in Mr. Ward’s direction confirms that this is private. “I’m sure it’s one of Mother’s excruciatingly detailed missives.” Bobbi chuckles fondly. “I’ll save it for tonight.”

Again, she glances quickly at Mr. Ward’s face, eyes curiously tender, as she slips the letter into her front pocket. His eyes linger, and she’s horrified to realize that she has to temper her reaction to that. 

“Mr. Ward,” Bobbi transitions. “Won’t you join us for tea? It feels like it’s been quite a long time since we were all together at Netherfield. I’m sure there’s much to catch up on.”

“I’m afraid I’m on my way out of Rosings Park for the day,” he says quickly. “My apologies, Mrs. Hunter.” He bows to her. And then, separately, “My apologies, Miss Jemma.”

It holds another meaning. Something new, something fragile but growing in the pit of her, bemoans that soft, regretful look on his face. 

He flees, and as soon as the front door shuts Bobbi whirls on her. “What on Earth has gotten into Mr. Ward?”

Jemma shakes her head, speechless. 

Jemma reads the letter so often in the coming months that it's a miracle it hasn’t disintegrated from the force of her gaze. 

_ The harm I’ve caused you and your sister will weigh on me, as it should. You were right, but then you always seem to be. I am controlling. I am possessive of those I care for. I am fighting my instincts, not letting that possession extend to you now… _

What an intimate thing, Jemma thinks, to have a man with so much power explain himself in writing. Permanent. What a tender, birdlike thing. 

_...as I know you would not welcome it, or even pretend to need it to spare my ego. I was wrong again when I said you’d be a burden on your parents. I wouldn’t be surprised if we should meet again days from now, and you were being offered marriage again, by another fool who couldn’t deserve you. _

Aunt Melinda, Jemma’s favored aunt, and her husband have arrived. They’re downstairs with her parents, waiting for her to bring down her traveling case so they can begin their trip. If only she could tear her eyes away. 

_ You must know, I’m not the type of man to make that offer lightly. I am yours.  _

His handwriting is elegant. Masculine. Hurried, though. 

_ And now I must try to explain myself, better than I did when I accosted you. Triplett is dear to me, a brother. Though I owe my estate to them, my blood relations hold no place in my heart, and are long gone besides. Triplett and Fitz are the only two souls on earth who could move me to meddle. Now, I suppose, you are the third.  _

Someone is calling her name from the bottom of the stairs. 

_ I will never regret protecting those I love from harm. I won’t apologize for it. I always thought Triplett’s goodness would lead him to ruin, one way or another, but I never thought to ask if he cared - if ruin, by society’s standards, would lead to a much happier existence. I do apologize for the way your sister must be feeling now. Miss Skye was always perfectly kind to me. I should not have made assumptions about her, or you.  _

“Jemma?”

_...And yet I can’t help but think selfishly. If I reunited them, would your opinion of me change? If I found suitable matches for all your sisters, and cared for your parents until their end, would you let me be your husband then?  _

“Dove, you’re worrying me.”

_ I’d imagine not. You’re too good to trade your heart away to someone who hasn’t earned it.  _

Jemma folds the letter quickly and shoves it into her pocket. Aunt Melinda gives her a small, knowing smile. “Love letter?”

Jemma wraps her arms around herself and changes the subject. 

“Fresh air does wonders for a broken heart,” Aunt Melinda says a week later, as they picnic. 

“Who has a broken heart?” Uncle Andrew teases. 

Broken? No. It can’t be broken. It’s thumped so wildly, so insistently, since that day. 

It’s awake. 

“Jemma, dove, the innkeeper in town suggested we go and see Pemberley. Your mother said you met the master of the estate last year, did you not?”

Melinda is probing. She already knows the answer. Jemma tries to keep her face straight and unaffected, but the effort of it keeps Melinda’s eyes. “I did.”

“You wouldn’t mind a visit, would you?”

Would she?

The housewoman assures them that Mr. Ward is away on business. This is a good thing, Jemma reminds herself. 

Even if he said those things then, he couldn’t possibly mean them now. Even if he were here today, he’d nod politely and leave them to their tour. It’s been months—he’s had just as much time as she to replay every word of their heated exchange over again, dissect it, restrategize it, agonize over it. 

She tries to keep her face schooled as she tours his home. His art collection is carefully curated. His gardens are obscene in their beauty. His library is vast, a single room bigger than her family’s home, elegant ladders reaching to the top of endless stacks of books. When the tour moves on, she excuses herself to stay and regard the collection. 

Her chest is heaving for some reason, and she begs it to calm when the door closes behind her aunt and uncle. She lets her fingers trail lightly on the books she can reach, awed by their value. By the secrets they possess. 

After an age of exploring, she realizes - it’s the first time she’s been alone in more than a week. She sits in one of the pair of armchairs at the far end of the room and quickly opens the letter. Scans down until the very last few sentences.

_ You’re too good to trade your heart away to someone who hasn’t earned it.  _

_ I swear to you that I will.  _

It sends a shiver through her, like it does every time. And then the door bursts open. 

“Is that—?” Mr. Ward says, eyes dipping down to the parchment in her hands. Then he seems to remember himself. “Miss Jemma,” he bows. 

She curtsies. Dimly she registers Aunt Melinda’s Cheshire smile. 

“I thought—” Jemma stutters. “They said the house was open to visitors.”

He nods. “It is. I just returned a moment ago. Your aunt was kind enough to greet me.”

Jemma stares at Melinda pointedly. 

“Forgive me - I’m always curious to meet my nieces’ friends,” Melinda says innocently. The word  _ friends _ echoes shrilly in Jemma’s mind. “However, I should be catching up with my husband before he becomes too enamored with the architecture to resist lecturing your staff. Please excuse me.”

And in a flash, Melinda is gone. 

Grant stares at her. “This is your mother’s sister?” Jemma nods. “She doesn’t remind me of your mother at all.”

He looks slightly hesitant, like she might not take it as a joke, but she feels a small smile bloom on her face. “Aunt Melinda is dear to me, not in small part for that exact reason.”

He smiles back. His eyes drift back down and belatedly Jemma realizes what she’s holding.

“What are you reading?” he asks politely, but the look in his eyes tells her he has a guess. 

She looks down. It seems her eyes are bashful where her mouth is not: “You must know what it is.”

She hears footsteps as he moves closer. He’s silent for a long moment. “I must say I’m...surprised.” Jemma’s eyes dart up. He’s much closer than she was expecting. “Part of me thought you might throw it away before looking at it,” he admits. 

She folds it up carefully and returns it to her front pocket. It takes her a few tries before she manages to speak. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“And you had no response?” he asks lightly. 

“I...wasn’t sure if one would be welcome.” Grant immediately looks like he wants to apologize, so she continues: “I was...terribly unkind to you, before.”

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t unjust. You were looking after the people you love.”

“As were you.”

He smiles, boyishly pleased that she has indeed read the letter enough to reference its words. “As misguided as my methods were, yes.”

She can’t disagree with that part. 

“I was just in London,” he says suddenly. 

“Oh?”

“To see Triplett.”

“And how does he fair?”

“I asked him if he thought I was controlling.”

She can’t help it - she raises her eyebrows. “I’m sure he was surprised by such a question.”

“Actually, no. He laughed at me. Quite a lot.”

She takes a step forward. “I seem to remember you not liking to be teased.”

“I can withstand it. When I deserve it.” He’s smiling, though. “He said that I was indeed manipulative and possessive, but it was born out of love. And that the fact that I asked him at all meant I’d come miles farther than where I was when we first met.”

“That’s something, I suppose,” she murmurs. 

He cups her arm, trails down reverently to hold her hand. “It made me hopeful,” he says quietly. “That he could see a change in me.”

Warmth blooms in Jemma’s chest, pinkens her face. But again, he seems to return to himself and gently lets her go. 

“I also asked him about your sister.”

Jemma freezes.

He sighs in response. “I made it clear that my misgivings shouldn’t interfere with his happiness.” 

“I appreciate that you took the time to do that,” she says. “As I said before, he is his own man. What he did, and what he does next, is his own choice.”

Grant looks down, the same pleased smile gracing his face. He clears his throat. “Your aunt referred to us as friends.”

She’s surprised by the sudden change in subject. “I believe she did.”

“I often write letters to my friends,” he points out. He takes a step forward. “Would it be alright if I wrote you some more?”

She can see past the innocent deception in his face. He’s realized, then, that the letter enthralled her. Perhaps that was his intention, to make his written word better than a lifetime of spoken ones. 

“It would,” she says. 

This grin is even better than the first two. 

“Will you be traveling on for long?” Grant asked. Jemma had wanted to walk, so he’s accompanying her now, her aunt and uncle trailing a humane distance behind. 

“Another two weeks,” Jemma says. 

“Will you travel to London to see your sister?”

She shakes her head. “Skye will make it home before I do. We’re eager to see each other, but since it was her direction to not lock myself away in her and Bobbi’s absence, I suppose she’ll have to wait.”

“She felt the need to direct you?”

“She exaggerates,” Jemma assures him with a small grin. “I think she worries that if no one’s around to coax me I might spend all day reading.”

For the smallest of moments he looks hesitant, and then he says, “They may have a point. Even here, on your vacation, you found the time to read.”

She peeks to the side to see his face. The same stupidly pleased smile. 

“You’re rather smug today, Mr. Ward,” she sniffs. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t help but feel like I’ve accomplished a great deal this afternoon.”

For some tender reason, that makes Jemma feel smug, too. 

Miles away from his gaze, back thoroughly entrenched in the quietly deadening house and her sisters’ ricocheting and her mother’s nerves, it’s impossible to think of it.

There’s no possible way he still loves her. Pang in her stomach aside, she can’t parse out how she would feel if he did. 

He made a point to call her a friend. A grown woman, a mature lady, would accept that olive branch graciously and at face value. But he also held her hand, paying her careful attention throughout their entire meeting. His gaze no longer felt judgemental and animalistic. Regret and shame weakened her, and then he showed her another side of him, quite deliberately—a charm offensive. An attack.

His letters—the very idea of them—don’t help matters either. 

The first one arrives before Jemma returns from her trip. Skye greets her at the door with a tight embrace, but the look in her eye makes Jemma uneasy. Until, of course, they make it to their bedroom and Skye holds out a letter, still sealed. 

“Is that not Mr. Ward’s seal?” she asks. 

“I believe it is,” Jemma says lightly, taking it from her. 

“I admit I’m quite surprised that he’s written,” Skye says, sitting down expectantly upon their bed. 

Hell. Jemma’s rubbish at lying. She thinks for a moment about how to phrase it. “Aunt and Uncle wanted to visit Pemberley while he was in residence. He asked if he could write.”

Skye’s eyes widened. “Now I’m quite surprised you allowed it.”

Guilt rockets through her. Here she is, trying to figure out if Ward is writing her as a friend or more, deliberately blinding herself to the fact that, despite his efforts, Skye is still here, heartbroken. 

“I could hardly stop a man from writing a letter,” Jemma says noncommittally. “Tell me about your trip. You've been gone much longer, besides.”

If Skye notices the brush off, she lets it pass, to her own clear discomfort. “There’s not much that I haven’t already told you. The city is quite diverting, Jemma, honestly. So much happening all at once.”

“Did you see him at all?” Jemma asks, crossing to join her on the bed. 

Skye shakes her head. “He…”

“What?”

“He did come to Uncle’s house, but I was at the market.”

“He called on you?” Jemma gasps. 

“Just a day before I left to return home.”

“Who received him?”

“Hannah, Uncle’s housekeeper.” Skye has spoken well of Hannah as an occasional confidante. “She said he was there to speak to me in particular, and that he seemed nervous.”

“Skye!” Wait. “But you didn’t see him at all?”

Skye lifts her shoulders, still uncomfortable but resolute. “I thought it rather too late.”

Jemma smiles, just a bit. Lord, does she love her sister. “You’ve moved past him.”

“I don’t know that I ever quite will,” she confesses. “It’s hard not to think of what could have been…but while I was away I couldn’t stop thinking that I’ve been doubting myself over an experience that lasted a matter of a few months. It’s rather foolish to behave like I was maligned.”

And the guilt churns in Jemma again, because Skye  _ was _ maligned. By Ward. By the man who held her hands and gave her his smiles and is writing her vexingly captivating letters. 

Jemma can’t lie. 

Hours later, Jemma and Skye hide under the covers, candlelight making them both into shadows. 

“Mr. Ward is the reason, then,” Skye says finally. “That Mr. Triplett called on me.”

“It would appear that way,” Jemma confirms, peeking at her sister. “But he’s also the reason he left in the first place.”

Skye’s brow furrows as she thinks about that. Then it clears suddenly: “Ward really confessed himself to you?”

“Yes,” Jemma says, voice suddenly hoarse. 

“And you rejected him.”

“Yes,” Jemma whispers. 

Skye blinks. “He confessed himself to you, you rejected him, and then you said he could write you letters?”

Every inch of her skin crawls with the feeling of exposure. “Yes.”

Something seems to dawn on Skye, an epiphany, an awareness, and she turns to look at her sister. “ _ Jemma _ .”

“What?” It’s so quiet she practically mouths it. 

“You lo—”

“Stop.” Jemma’s eyes are screwed closed. As if that would help. 

She feels Skye’s fingers on her face, trying to soothe the tension there. But then a small sound escapes Skye and Jemma’s eyes snap back open. 

“Are you laughing at me?”

Skye lets the sound spill from her lips. “I’m sorry, Jemma, truly. But I can’t figure out why you’re so tortured about it.”

Jemma swallows, hard. “He hurt you.”

Skye sends her eyes heavenwards. “So maybe he did. But let’s not forget that Mr. Triplett made his own decisions.” And her voice doesn’t even tremble on his name. “Not everyone has to like me or trust me, especially after only knowing me for a short time. And now Mr. Ward has made efforts to correct his behavior. That’s thanks to you.”

Jemma starts to shake her head, but Skye continues. “You are too stubborn for your own good, Jemma. You protect me fiercely, and I love you for it. But now it’s getting in the way of your happiness. Never mind the fact that there’s nothing really to protect me from.”

Absurdly, tears flood Jemma’s vision. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Skye moves forward and kisses her forehead. “Sleep, Jemma. In the morning, read the letter. You don’t have to do anything more than that.”

Skye lowers the lamps and politely ignores Jemma’s labored breathing as she tries to calm herself to sleep. 

_ Dearest Miss Jemma, _

_ It seemed like the hands of fate were on my side, guiding you to Pemberley right when I was most ready to see you.  _

_ I can admit it now—my behavior in the months after we met was deplorable. I was a shambling mess. I resented the strange new feeling burning me alive from the inside out. Making me raw and new. Perhaps that’s too violent, but it felt exactly that forceful. I resented the change and did my best to right it. My world was tilted off its axis. You gracefully walked through it; I was left scrambling like a colt to keep up with you.  _

_ None of that is said to put a burden on you. You did nothing but react to my poor manners. But seeing you at Pemberley made me, perhaps obscenely, proud. I wonder if I seemed different to you. More pleasant, less forceful. More good-humored, less prideful. I’ll admit that introspection doesn’t come naturally to me, but I hope you could see how I took your words to heart.  _

_ And all of that has resulted in this. A letter. Perhaps it's absurd after all that has happened, but I feel compelled to a sense of friendly duty. So—how do things fair in Hertfordshire? Are you safe? Are you happy?  _

_ And should your sisters be in need of husbands, or your parents in need of caring for, I will be standing by to assist. _

_ Yours,  _

_ Grant _

_ Grant, _

_ You give me too much credit. Holding aside anything either of us may have done to each other, the things I said to you stooped far lower than I thought myself capable of. For that, I’m truly sorry.  _

_ To answer your questions: Yes, I am safe. Yes, I suppose I am happy enough. Things in Hertfordshire have been rather dull since a trio of genteel city dwellers returned to their previous lives.  _

_ I must admit, I did notice a change in you in Pemberley. But as I sit here, I have to take more of the blame. I was unbending. I didn’t allow you room to show yourself to me. I am astonished at all the things I certainly missed, blinded by my own falsehood. I tend to see things in black and white. Perhaps if I had been gentler, if we both had been gentler, we could’ve dug beyond the surface. I imagine dark soil clinging to delicate roots. A more loving person might’ve had the patience to clean them off and get to the heart of the matter.  _

_ All of this is to say, again, that I apologize for my harshness. _

_ But you must tire of apologies. I know I have. Next time you write, tell me stories of Pemberley. Again, I cannot stress enough how dull it’s been. _

_ Jemma _

His third letter is a single line, ungreeted and unsigned— _ You called me Grant. _ It throws her into utter hysterics. She spends the better part of the morning that day describing to a morbidly curious Skye how, if he were in her vicinity, she would endeavor to strangle him to death. 

The fourth comes the very next day, as though he’d realized how she would react, and she petulantly refuses to read it. At least, until night falls and she’s weakened by curiosity. It’s filled with gentle, teasing apologies and soothing commendations to her character.

She somehow finds her last shred of dignity left and responds. It goes on that way for more than a month. 

It is at the height of her mother’s suspicion about the letters that Ward and Triplett materialize outside of Longbourn house. 

Jemma has done her best to attribute them to Bobbi, but Ward’s ostentatious wax seal betrays them. She’s taken to watching for the mail everyday, running out to get it, and carefully tearing the seal away and stuffing it in her dress. 

Which, if she’s being honest, isn’t exactly drawing attention away from the letters. 

Today shouldn’t be different than any other day. She’s found the biggest tome in her father’s collection, a medical textbook she’s read a few times before, and has taken to hiding the letters in the pages. She knows from experience that her mother and sisters find the topic uninteresting and at times disturbing, so they won’t ask any questions or try to look over her shoulder. She can sit next to them and pretend to be studying, and instead read the letters over and over again, trying to parse more meaning. 

It’s been six days since the last letter and she’s beginning to feel a bit desperate. 

Until, of course, a shriek breaks the relative peace of the house, and Jemma’s head snaps up to see her sisters at the window. 

It’s not unlike waking from a coma. One moment her sisters are squealing in excitement and the next her mother is insisting in shrill tones that Jemma occupy Mr. Ward so Skye and Triplett can be alone. And the next, she and Ward are walking through the fields of Longbourn. Aimless and silent. 

Jemma’s never felt quite so mortified in all her life. Nor so at such a loss for words. 

“Triplett asked me to accompany him,” Ward says suddenly. 

“Ah,” she says. 

“I’m sure you were otherwise engaged but Triplett was quite insistent he couldn’t wait a moment longer.”

“I don’t mind,” Jemma says, voice coming out softer than she expected. 

“Were you reading again?” he asks. 

Her eyes dart up and she realizes all at once that she’s still holding the textbook, stuffed with evidence of her occupation with him, clutching it close to her chest. 

Oh, Christ above. 

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in biology,” he confesses. 

She feels uneasy, remembering a conversation with Ward and Raina at Netherfield. It seems like ages ago. “I’m interested in many things that accomplished young ladies aren’t supposed to be interested in.”

“To your credit, I should think,” he says, voice quiet. They’re approaching the old barn now and on pure instinct she slips inside. 

It feels like her mind is completely empty, and her body is moving without her. He rounds the door and her hand catches on the sleeve of his shirt, diverting his momentum.

Ward steps towards her carefully. She lets the book slip from her hand and fists another hand in his shirt. She’s in a stupor—she has no idea what her expression is telling him and she’s too frightened to put words to his. 

Though maybe she should have put more effort to interpreting his gaze; then she may have been better prepared for when he takes her face in his hands and claims her lips. 

He is a force, certainly. All strength, save the barest hint of sweetness. She’s gripping him so tightly his shirt will be wrinkled horribly. 

And then he’s pulled away, staggering. “My apologies, Miss Simmons.” It comes out with heavy breath. 

She blinks at him. She’s rather unsurprised to find that she’s leaning quite heavily on the barn door.

“I daresay, Mr. Ward, you don’t look sorry.”

He huffs out a little laugh and sits heavily onto a hay bale. She watches from afar as his expression, unguarded for once, shifts from troubled to determined. 

He looks over at her finally. He’s not quite smiling but there’s something like affection in the crinkle around his eyes that makes her press a hand to her stomach, pushing at the emotion stirring up there. 

Before he can say anything, she finds herself moving towards him and sitting down as well. “I told my sister everything.”

He considers that for a moment. “And how did she respond?”

“She called me obstinate,” she frowns. Something in her expression must amuse him, because he laughs at that. “She said that when you were told what you’d done, you made your amends, and essentially absolved you of blame.”

“Your sister may indeed be kinder than she is even in polite company.”

“She is a tender-hearted angel, indeed.”

“On that subject,” he says. “Something in one of your first letters surprised me.”

She instantly flushes with embarrassment. “Oh?”

He quotes her: “ _ A more loving person might’ve had the patience to get to the heart of the matter.” _

“You quite have it memorized,” she murmurs, stunned. 

“Of course,” he says, refusing to be embarrassed. 

It’s unbearably attractive. 

“What troubles you, sir?” she asks. 

“You’ve described yourself as not a loving person.”

“I did.”

“I disagree.”

She blinks up at him. “Mr. Ward, you of all people should agree with me.”

“Hardly,” he says. “Your every word and action has been in defense of your loved ones. Perhaps impatient, I could give you, although I do think you’ve been patient with me since then. You are quick to make judgements, especially when it comes to protecting yourself and those you love. I can’t fault you for that. Not when I’m the same way.”

She so badly wants to let the question slip past her lips, but his obviously rosy study of her character has her holding her tongue. 

“I’d say you’re a perfectly loving person,” he concludes. “That’s part of why I still want you.”

Something like delight breaks over her, warm and bright and so, so satisfying. 

“I want you too.” It comes out of her softly, but she makes no endeavor to take it back.

He turns to her now. He doesn’t look surprised, but he does look serious. “I told you before, Jemma. This is permanent for me. You must be very sure.” It’s supposed to sound like a challenge, maybe. 

She can’t help but smile. It’s probably not the moment to tease him but she’s hardly been able to refrain from doing so up to this point. “As sure as any woman could be about signing her life away.”

A smirk breaks out on his face. “I’m going to assume that you mean to say that you love me and that you want to get married.”

“You know what they say about assuming such things.”

“Then tell me,” he challenges. 

She wasn’t totally wrong about his character. If she’d had occasion to think about it, she almost certainly would have guessed he’d make her beg. 

She lets her most innocent expression take over her face. It gives her time to pluck up her courage. “I love you. I think we should get married now.”

His smile is sharp and just as satisfying as his words. 

“I’ll talk to your father once Triplett is finished.” He stands. 

Jemma stands too and impulsively winds her arms around his neck. “Are you so sure he’ll consent?”

“I can be very persuasive.” His arms wrap around her waist, pulling her close.

“So can I. Let me talk to him first.”

He kisses her forehead. “There’s no need, Jemma. Honestly, what reason would he have to refuse me?”

“I’m his favorite.”

“So?” He kisses her temple, then the apple of her cheek. 

“So he believes I hate you.”

He finally pulls back just slightly to look at her. “Shouldn’t my asking indicate that we’ve come to some sort of agreement?”

“Hardly. He’ll assume you’ve made this decision on your own, as men often do.”

“Oh, really?” His eyelids flutter in amusement. “Enlighten me, which of your many virtues would have swayed me to ask for you against your wishes?”

“Some men happen to think I’m very beautiful,” she sniffs.

“Those men would do well to pretend they hadn’t noticed, as I did,” he mutters darkly. 

“Let me talk to him first,” she repeats. 

“No,” he insists. “Now it’s a challenge. I’m sure I can convince him on my own merit.”

She sighs, teasing again. “And Skye calls me stubborn.”

He makes her pay for that. 

What had she called him before? A  _ prideful, standoffish bore _ ? Prideful, she’ll grant him. But he has much to be proud of. Any standoffishness has dematerialized in the way his hands grip her hips, the way he smiles down at her. 

Bore? No. Maybe the man he pretends to be in polite company is a bore. This man, who lays her down on the floor of the halls of Pemberley, is anything but. 

  
  



End file.
